


dramaturgy

by vitriol



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Gen, Off Screen Death, mostly speculation, narita fight me, you could MAYBE read it as st germain having a Feel for richard idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 19:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitriol/pseuds/vitriol
Summary: A conversation at Richard the Lionheart's deathbed, through the eyes of the swindler appointed as a court mage.
Kudos: 6





	dramaturgy

It is April 6th, 1199. At the eve of a new century, dozens of Britons pass through the king’s quarters, mourning for a King who has yet to die. Some have prayed to the Lord above for clemency, others pray for a miracle. None can believe it; their lionhearted king has fallen to a measly crossbow. To add insult to injury, a crossbow fired by a mere  _ peasant. _

Though in a demonstration of life’s many little ironies, it seemed that the King they all grieve and despair over is nothing but calm. Resigned, perhaps. A man that has seen enough bloodshed to drown Aquitaine and enough bodies to make pillars of them...has come to realize that he is no different from any of those he has slain. Even for kings, death does not hesitate. Whether you are young or old or rich or poor or peasant or noble, death will take your soul away with equal indifference.

That singular truth is something that I have learned over my travels. 

I have seen it all, of course. I have ventured up to the temples in Tibet and down into the waters of the Dead Sea. I have seen the rise of conquerors, as I have guided them into their prime with an unsteady, yet confident hand. Not once have I arrived at a time and place where I know exactly what I must do and how to accomplish it, but throughout the centuries I’ve managed to perfect my poker face. 

Any swindler worth their money knows the importance of knowing how to put up a good bluff. ‘Fake it till ya make it’, is what they’ll all tell you. And you know what? It works. I can put on any number of hats: a counselor, a jester, an intellectual, an alchemist, a philosopher, or even your weekly therapist. And from the number of kings that I have served, I can assure you that they all need at least  _ one _ therapist.

But in the same way that I have seen countless kings rise, I have watched them all fall as well. It is part of Newton’s third law of motion--every action has an opposite reaction to it. No matter how high you fly, you will eventually come back down to the Earth once you lose your force. But unlike in physics, this fall cannot be foreseen.

Unless you’re me, that is. 

Of course, even armed with this knowledge, there’s nothing that I can do to stop it. I could not stop the death of Henry II and I could not stop the death of those innocent lives at Ayyadieh. I could not stop the death of Alexander the Great, and I will not be able to stop the fall of the French Monarchy. 

But I still try, foolish ol’ me. I give, give, and continue giving advice with the hopes that it will change the tides. It never works, of course, but I suppose it helps me sleep at night; a small consolation prize for my efforts. Perhaps if I were capable of it, I’d end up causing more trouble for humanity but is it that much of a sin to wish for a fairer world?

“Saint Germain…” 

It’s King Richard’s voice that pulls me out of my thoughts. I’m standing by the window, the breeze of early spring chilling my bones. I turn around, and give my patron a small smile. “Oh? I believed you were asleep. Do you want me to fetch a nurse for you?” 

Richard scoffs, albeit weakly. “There’s nothing else that the nurses can do…” There is not much energy to him left, I notice. He may only have a few more hours left--history books never did me much service with regards to time of death. His voice is strained, but he continues talking. How typically stubborn of him. “But I want...to talk. To you.” There’s a pause, and his eyes, as radiant as the sun, gaze up at the ceiling. “About you.”

?

“About me?” I parrot back, unable to hide my own surprise. Having made myself known for being incomprehensible to the point of annoyance, not many of those that I approached bothered to ask me anything about myself. I never minded--that was part of my design. Part of the man known as Saint Germain. Normally, I would have played the act of court jester, but to someone on their deathbed...well, there’s only so much cruelty I can allow myself to. “I cannot assure you a straight answer, but sure. I’m an open book.” 

Richard’s gaze drops from the ceiling and I see him struggle to turn around in order to look at me straight in the eye. Though I return the gaze, I cannot help but feel uncomfortable. Not because of the skin, reddened with sepsis, that peeks from his robes, nor because of the otherwise pallid complexion the King has, but because of those eyes that still retain their fiery nature, even at the jaws of death. 

“Who… are you, really?”

His question is simple. And yet it moves me to my core in a manner that no one has ever managed to do before. My heart skips a beat and, for the first time in decades, I am rendered speechless for a couple seconds. 

Who am I…?

“Ha...haha…”

It is a voice from far away. For a second, I can’t help but wonder if there is an intruder in this room, someone that is mocking us for our little impromptu heart-to-heart session. 

But there is no one in the room. And it’s not Richard who’s laughing either. Therefore it is  _ me _ who is laughing, and I can’t really say why. There wasn’t anything particularly comical about it...ah, but it  _ is _ rife with irony, isn’t it? Who am I? Who am I, if not the Count of Saint Germain, a made up title for a made up man? After all of these years-- 

“I can’t say I know,” is what I respond with. I can only imagine how I look, because Richard’s expression goes from incredulous to neutral to  _ something _ else entirely. I can’t stand it. So I ask a question back: “Who do  _ you _ think I am?”

Richard appears to take the question seriously. He rests back on his bed with a groan, his expression thoughtful. There is not much silence--even with death at his doorstep, he still has a quick mind. “I would say...you’re a friend,” he wheezes out. I’m about to open my mouth to retort, but he continues. “You’re...my court mage, and a loyal ally. Maybe if I...had followed your advice more…” Richard’s voice trails off, ending in a snort. I figure that he, too, must be seeing the countless what-ifs and could-have-beens of his reign, had he made different decisions. “Ah, well. It matters not. What I know is...that you are more...than just a court mage, no?”

Now it’s  _ my _ turn to be amused. “I explicitly told you that I was no mage, actually. I’m just a swindler and an aristocrat.”

“You did...yes. But for a ‘swindler and an aristocrat’ to have...such a strange carriage...and knowledge of both past and future… there must be a story.” Richard’s eyes close, and his expression is pained. I have heard that death by sepsis is one of the worst ways to go, so I can only imagine what kind of pain he must be going through. And yet when his eyes open again, they are still full of life. “Tell it to me. My dear mother...she would tell me stories of the Knights...tell it like that.” 

It is another ridiculous request. I hesitate, unsure of how or where to even begin. I cannot say that my story is not uninteresting. It is the life of a sidekick in a scifi series, leaving the reader with enough questions to garner a third-rate spinoff. But  _ because _ my life is like that is exactly why I have never told anyone my whole story. I dazzle them with a bizarre personality that I’ve concocted over time (plus some bizarreness that is just inherently me), but the story of how the man known as Saint Germain came to be is not nearly as kind. 

Normally, I would say no. 

“Come on…” Richard insists, his brow knit in frustration over my hesitation. “You said you were gonna...be an open book.”

But once again, the earnest request from such a lively fellow at the jaws of death tugs at heartstrings I am unable to throw away and I give in. While I have no knowledge of how Eleanor of Aquitaine told the stories to her lionhearted son, I do my best to make it as entertaining as possible. No embellishments, no cut corners. I tell Richard my past, my present, and my future, those who I have met, and those who I will meet. I tell him about the tragedies I have seen and the ones that I will see and the blessings in between. 

And he watches on as I pace around the room, putting my heart and soul into this one-man act made for a one-man audience. The story of a man that chases death and is chased by death, trying to bring peace and prosperity to humanity and failing at the last step.

It is at the end when I see the fruits of my labor. Richard, weak and pale with fever, is smiling at me. It is soft, sweet, and perhaps, a little pitiful. I accept all of these emotions, for I suppose that is what I would feel when shown a story as tragic as this. 

“You…” he starts, trying to take a deep breath, “really aren’t that enviable.”

I scoff. That is something that I’ve known for a long time, but I can’t help but tease the King for saying my thoughts out loud. “Oh? I would have imagined that a warmonger like yourself would have enjoyed traveling throughout the world.” 

Richard pauses in thought, and then shakes his head--tries to, at least. “The Holy Land...was what called to me. Walking the steps of King Arthur...was what I yearned for. Like you said...I am just a warmonger that took down everything in my path because of my heart’s desires. But I did this because...I am human. I will soon die...like all other humans. But what do you...yearn for? After all that you have seen...what do you want?” 

I do not answer. Not immediately, at least. I’m not sure  _ how _ to answer. I  _ know  _ that there is a purpose to my journey. There is no way that there wouldn’t be. And yet when I look into those lively eyes of the dying King, I find myself confused. I could never relate to someone as headstrong as him--maybe once upon a time I could, but not anymore. 

But after a moment of silence, I know what answer to give him. “I simply want the best for humanity,” I say. I can feel myself smiling. 

In response, Richard shakes his head. “That is not an answer to my question…” But after a sigh, he adds, “But if it has brought you all this way here...then hold on to that. I do not believe that I...have helped a lot in your quest.” His lips turn into a small smile, full of self-deprecation. “As you said...I was...quite the warmonger.” 

Raising my shoulders in a shrug, I look to the side. “That is fine. Alexander the Great was the same. I wouldn’t say that I was let down either.” 

Richard hums, closing his eyes--it seems like it’s harder to keep them open now. “One last question,”

“I may have to charge you extra,” I interject, and we both laugh.

“Why did you choose me?” Richard asks, opening his eyes once again. He looks genuinely curious, and I almost wish that I could pull out a camera and take a picture of it in order to frame it. “You could have chosen Philip in France... or Leopold in Austria… ah, or even John…so...why me?” 

Now that was an easy question. “I only follow those who interest me,” I answer. “And you’ve always caught my eye--though I’m no Loxley, unfortunately.” 

“You’re always...so crass…” Richard laughs breathlessly, falling back against the pillows. There is a smile on his face, his eyes closed. I can only wonder what thoughts must be going through the King’s mind. “But if that is the case...then so be it. I hope that...you at least enjoyed your time with me.” 

I close my eyes, bowing deeply and dramatically, like an actor thanking his audience. “You can rest easy. My time here was an interesting one. They will be singing your praises for centuries to come, Richard.”

“Is that so…” Richard’s voice is quiet, a mere whisper now--a world’s difference from the man that yelled battle cries to rile his army up. “I would have preferred it if...they had sung King Arthur’s instead…”

His voice trails off, and his eyes close. While his chest is still rising and falling with every breath, even I know that there is not much time left for him. I am aware that this is a sign for me to take my leave in search of a new place...but I cannot find the will to do so. Part of me wishes to stay here by the King’s side, and watch as Death comes down to pick up Richard’s soul in its arms, if only to ask it why it won’t take me instead. 

But I know why it won’t. And if Richard or Alexander or any of the other rulers heard me having such thoughts, they would most certainly chide me for it. 

I cannot give up. The show must continue. Whether its purpose will be meaningful or if it’s all for naught is still up for debate, and I imagine that it will be the case until the moment that it isn’t. And until that day comes, I must continue to roam the Earth, watching kings rise and fall like the sun in the sky until my role is fulfilled. 

Perhaps, only then, death will greet me.

**Author's Note:**

> "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE NOT WRITING ABOUT FLAT???????????????" i was possessed i'm sorry. 
> 
> but those on twitter would know why i'm writing about st. germain and if YOU wanna know you can follow me @ jibetatravel at twitter dot com


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